


east is up

by thepractitioner



Category: BLURRYFACE - Twenty One Pilots (Album), Trench - Twenty One Pilots (Album), Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anxiety, Brainwashing, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Self-Harm, Songfic, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-23 11:13:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16617881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepractitioner/pseuds/thepractitioner
Summary: they cannot know you were here. turn around. you saw nothing, heard nothing. you will never speak of this. yield, conform, do as they say. ask no questions, put up no fight, and you will survive.





	1. i'm heavy

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to trench.

The alarm bells are too familiar, barely enough to wake him anymore; eyes still glazed over with sleep, he glances at the clock with a twinge of hope that the numbers will not read 6:15. But they do, like always, a steady reminder that this day will be no different than the last. He slides out of his cot within the minute, as is required, and briefly peers out the window. There is a flap of wings as one of the city’s vultures perches on the roof, its head jerking as it peers at him. He is unsure if it is the same bird as every other day, since they all look the same, but a part of him wants to believe that it is, that the bird means something. He longs for anything to mean something.

He shrugs off his nightclothes in favor of the mandatory work uniform, a charcoal grey jumpsuit that feels looser than it used to. The unyielding, scratchy fabric seems to weigh on his shoulders more and more every day, military-grade razorblades heavy in his pockets. Although their purpose is solely for work, the lines on his hips and thighs are a reminder that there are still parts of him the bishops do not know of or control. 

The bowl of porridge scorches his mouth while his mother clucks her tongue in disapproval. “You never learn, Tyler,” she sighs, only half-kidding. She is fonder than she is supposed to be, but they are somewhat safe in the privacy of their lodging. The burning reminds him that he is still alive, still feels despite the growing fear of losing touch. The burn feels like home. He tilts his head back and swallows the vial of clear liquid sitting beside his breakfast despite the twinge in his heart at the thought of what it contains. He must not reveal the chant of _wrong wrong wrong_ that sounds in his mind. Within a minute, the _wrong wrong wrongs_ morph themselves into unrecognizable shapes until his brain is numb again.

Dema is grey. It is not the beautiful, reflective grey that mesmerizes the eye and changes shade with the sunlight. It is cold and lifeless, reflective only of the monotony the city offers. Concrete walls and unnatural angles form the circular city, split into nine provinces that are exactly the same. To its citizens, the endless grey is comforting in that it offers no surprises or unfamiliarity. In Dema, there is only neutrality that resembles the fog that curls up every crevice. 

The streets are busy at this time of morning, full of passing faces shuffling along on the concrete, but the traffic is anything but chaotic. Tyler trudges behind the man he knows to live next door but has never spoken to despite his curiosity. The bishops permit contact only with immediate family members and those in the same profession for purposes of safety and peace. Though Tyler knows the rules are for the good of the society, he cannot help but wonder about the others. They march in a line to their destinations, not a foot or arm out of place though they are going many different ways. For Tyler, it is a mechanics factory to which he was assigned at the age of fifteen. 

His family is fortunate to live in the district of Nico, leader of the nine bishops governing Dema. Tyler had only truly met him once on the day of his assignment to the factory. He is a man who stands tall but lacks physical height, and he weaves his words together so beautifully it is impossible not to listen. The bishop spoke mostly in the sets of numbers that were ingrained in Tyler’s mind from his upbringing in the Vialist schools; but while he could understand the tongue, he could not speak it himself. Now, he only hears Nico speak from afar on Gathering days, when all nine bishops would meet and do justice unto those who disrupt the Vialist code. The hearings would be broadcast, Dema’s citizens relishing the condemnation of wrongdoers. Tyler wondered if he was alone in knowing that the trials were really just mechanisms for instilling fear and obedience. He certainly felt like it.

Working is mindless but in an oddly enjoyable way. The monotony of his daily tasks at the factory make him feel capable and accomplished, as though he is fulfilling his purpose in life. He builds machines without knowing their purpose at all; he is told only that they are city regulation and nothing else. There is a haze over everything he sees, making it difficult to do anything but concentrate on what his hands are doing, but it is the same haze that has plagued his vision for as long as he has been alive. To be without it would be abnormal and likely not worth the desire he feels for it to go away.

Two young siblings, a boy and a girl with dull brown eyes, have been newly assigned to the factory now that they have turned fifteen. He recognizes them from when he was still at the school, though they are far younger than him, and wants to greet them but knows that he shouldn’t. When Jean, the overseer, appoints him to train them in their duties, he understands it as a test. He will be watched as he teaches, he will be scrutinized. There is suddenly a pressure in his chest that makes him want to run away and hide. 1, 2, 3, 4… he begins counting to himself, willing the feeling to go away without a trace. _Did he see? Does he know?_

In the chill of early winter, Tyler walks home in darkness as the days become shorter and shorter. By law, work ends at the first moonlight, and he finds that he hates winter for this reason because it means less time in a comforting routine and more time in the chaos of the night. The lamps lining the streets cast icy light onto the concrete, barely enough to discern a path. He jumps at the sound of a bird calling from the distance, though it is a sound as familiar as his own voice, and narrowly avoids stepping on someone’s foot. _Fall in line,_ his mind chants, _do not let them see._ He keeps his gaze straight in front of him despite the temptation to make sure no one noticed his falter.

When he turns onto the stone pathway to his lodging, his shoulders relax ever so slightly. There are not as many people here; in fact, tonight there are none at all. Less faces to avoid, less room for mistakes. He knows that the rules are for his own good, but he cannot help but feel suffocated by them. There must be more, he’s _heard_ that there is more than Dema. As a child, there was an old man in his building that he would pass every so often who whispered to himself. Barely discernible over the shuffling of feet were words like _trench_ and _yellow_ and _beyond_. Though he didn’t know what the first two words were, he knew purely by the sake of logic that beyond referred to the world that lay on the outside of the perimeter. Though the man had been gone for a long time, his bones likely doomed to the Necropolis, Tyler thought about him often.

The perimeter had been standing since long before Tyler was born, a tall concrete wall that loomed, threatening and unyielding, over the city. He knew it to be a circle, infinite and continuous just like life within it. Without a single flaw, the wall kept the citizens of Dema from the harmful world around it. Tyler was beginning to see that it might be the opposite; keeping people isolated in order to prevent them from harming each other or themselves. The Necropolis was a stark reminder of the necessity to yield, to obey.

In the quiet calamity of the night, Tyler’s foot brushed something. Without a thought, he bent down to pick it up as if it was something of his that he had dropped. Before even looking at what it was, he had hidden it in his coat pocket and ascended the two flights of stairs to his family’s lodging. In the quiet confines of his dormitory, the few moments he had to change prior to supper, he extracted it from his jacket. A flower, something he had never seen in person before, laid in his hand, its color vastly different from the greys, blacks, and reds of his daily life. It was beautiful and bright and so _different_. When a knock came on his door, an expectation of his attendance at dinner, he rushed to hide away the one thing he suddenly wanted to stare at for the rest of his life. With a deft, practiced hand, he placed it in his dresser drawer without allowing it to make a sound. The drawer had never held anything else, but now it had a purpose. The clock on the top still read 6:15, but he knew time was up.

Like every other night, after a supper of boiled vegetables and chicken the alarm bells ring. Though they happen almost daily, the sound is still unsettling enough to raise the hairs on citizens’ arms. No one truly knows what they mean or what they warn against, as the only instruction is to close the windows and blinds and remain silent until the second ringing. No one dares to do anything but obey, Tyler included. Though his heart aches to glance outside, to see the true reason behind the alarms, he knows this is impossible. Instead, he sneaks into the basement of his complex by use of a loose floorboard in his room; it is the one secret he allows himself.

In the dark confines of the basement there is a machine he does not know the name of. It has black and white buttons that make noises when he presses them. Though the object has no purpose that Tyler can discern, he finds comfort in knowing that there is one thing in this monotonous world that is purely his. He can press the keys softly, his ear inches away from it so only he can hear the sound, and appreciate the haunting beauty of the notes. Tonight, he is so close to it that his eyes are drawn to a small word on the black surface, dirty enough to blends right in just like Tyler does. _Cheetah_. Time stops as he suddenly has a word for this thing that has provided him comfort all these years, a name that means nothing and everything all at once.

He sits at the machine for as long as he dares before retreating back to the solemn confines of his dormitory. Though he knows no one suspects anything, that it is Private Hours and his family will not come looking for him, he is still afraid that somehow his secret will be taken away from him. The moment he is away from the Cheetah, he feels lost and out of place. There is a pit in his stomach that tells him that this world is wrong, that there must be more than Dema and its greyness.

As is usual, he cannot sleep. Visions of Nico plague his mind, the punishments he faces at the hands of the bishop gruesome to imagine. The blue glow of his lamp burns his eyelids every time he tries to close them, the nine towers of the city tormenting his thoughts. Nico oversees the highest tower, the Tower of Silence. Although none truly know what lies within the tower, the vultures return there each evening as the citizens of Dema trek to their lodgings. 

He feels foolish, but Tyler is desperate. _Please help me_ , he chants in his mind like a mantra, _please help me. I know there is more. If anyone is there, I need help_. Despite feeling like his prayers fall on deaf ears, there is a small part of his heart that wants to believe that someone is listening. 

Several days pass in careful, quiet desperation. He feels stuck between two places; desperate to be free of Dema but terrified at the prospect of escaping the comfort of a predictable life. The medicine that comes with his breakfast dulls the turmoil that has settled in his bones but does not eradicate it, the haze around the edges of his vision suddenly instilling a feeling of sickness rather than comfort.

Despite the nausea that screams at him to stop, Tyler has formulated some kind of plan. He knows from his schooling that there are tunnels beneath the city which allow those who work in the Necropolis to travel to their jobs. He doesn’t have many possessions, but feels a pang in his heart at the thought of leaving the Cheetah behind. The few things he does have, like the compass he discovered in some rubble at work, will easily fit in his work pack. He will travel by night despite the watchers prowling the streets, as during the day putting a foot out of line would raise questions even among the other citizens. Tyler knows it will be difficult to get through the work day with the anxiety of his journey resting on his shoulders. He is tempted to take his medicine at breakfast just to quell the knot in his stomach, but he knows he must be fully aware to avoid every possible part of this that could go wrong. The scenarios play in his mind over and over again.

Tyler rises far before the alarm the following morning. He stares at the ceiling and its tarnished shades of grey, willing himself to hold it together long enough for his plan to work. The vulture sits outside and he feels as though it is studying him, waiting for the chance of a meal. Today, he is certain it is the same bird. _They cannot know. They will come for you. They will hurt you. You must obey._ it seems to say to him. He fears for his family, for the pain they may face, but also for himself. Why couldn’t he face the same fate as the others so willingly? Why couldn’t he be the same as them? The jumpsuit he pulls on feels heavier than ever, but it is a type of weight that grounds him while he feels like he might float away. 

At breakfast, the bowl of porridge his mother sets before him looks as it always does. When Tyler takes the first bite and scalds his already sensitive tongue, just like every other day, he also feigns choking on the mush. In the commotion of the moment, he grabs the daily glass of liquid beside his bowl and hurries to the sink. Although he has done absolutely nothing like this in his life, he is oddly calm as he pretends to use the medicine to wash down the oats stuck in his throat. Instead, he pours it down the sink as his back is angled towards his mother. When he turns back around, waving off her concern, his mind is clear and so is his vision. 

An hour into the day, red flashes in his eyes. But it is not the deep maroon of the bishops’ cloaks that he sees but the red of flame. A vehicle burns behind his irises, one he has never seen in his life but feels familiar nonetheless. The inferno must have engulfed it long before, leaving behind only a shell that has been torched black. He knows that the only vehicles that remain in Dema are reserved for those who work in the Necropolis, and even those do not look like this one. Stranger than the car itself was the scenery surrounding it; towering trees, a deep green that Tyler has never seen in his life, are home to this machine but do not catch fire. The momentary vision leaves him with shaky hands that nearly slip up a simple mechanical repair, but instead of being concerned about a possible error he is wondering how he could have seen the car before. He has to get out, and his mind is so preoccupied with the thought that he doesn’t notice Jean watching him with unblinking eyes.

All things considered, Tyler plays the part of a conformist Dema citizen well. He trains the new twins on basic mechanical procedures with a voice that is dull and unwavering. They watch with eyes glazed over, the little mental capacity left to them clinging to his instructions. Now that he is privy to emotions, he feels extremely sad for the siblings. They are so young yet they suffer without an ounce of recognition, without a question. He wants to yell in their faces, screaming that this is not the only life despite being unsure of that fact himself. Instead he remains a silent watcher, determined to get them out as soon as he figured out how.

At night he pays his last visit to the Cheetah. It feels foreign to know tomorrow night he will not see it again, just like he will not march to the factory behind his neighbors that might as well be foreigners. In that moment, sitting with the Cheetah, Tyler startles at the feeling of wetness on his face. He realizes that it is _him,_ that these are _tears._ The feeling of crying is so alien to him yet so cathartic, like it has been building up inside him for his whole life with no way of escaping. Now that the tears have escaped, Tyler understands that it is what he must do as well. 

The notes he plays tonight somehow sound less somber. They are the same ones he has heard every night for the past several years, but the Cheetah seems to understand that something has changed. There is life in the sounds, soft sighs of relief and triumphant shouts to the heavens. Tyler feels known and understood more by this machine than by any human he has ever met, and it encourages him to _leave,_ to _go!_ And so he will.


	2. on steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he will escape. they cannot know. he must be free. he will never be free. they will come. they will find him. he wants them gone.

In his dreams, the burning car returns. There is a figure crouched on its hood, face tilted towards the ground and shrouded in shadow. He seems unaffected by the heat of the flames licking up and around the windows, unafraid of their potential to engulf him. Perhaps he cannot be burned, Tyler thinks, or maybe he cannot feel pain. Smoke fills his lungs but he pushes down the cough that threatens to escape, feeling as though he cannot reveal weakness in front of the stranger. 

Tyler does not know what he was expecting, but he was certainly not prepared to see his own face when the figure raises its head. The man looks at him, his eyes reflecting the red of the fire. Despite the fact that they are the same, Tyler still sees a complete stranger before him. He is dressed in all black save for a scarlet red hat pulled snug over his ears, his breath winding itself in with the billowing smoke. He rises from his crouch slowly, like a cat rising from slumber.

“The compass lies. East is up”, he says. And suddenly, Tyler is awake.

He nearly falls out of his cot as he sucks in a breath, biting down on his knuckles to keep himself from shouting. The voice speaking those words had been _his_ , and though he does not know their meaning, Tyler cannot expel them from his mind. His breaths come short and fast as he realizes he is terrified; what did the man mean? Why does the car feel so _real? And why can’t he get rid of the feeling that he has seen it before?_

__

__

The morning bells jolt him out of the trance left behind by his nightmare. He rises quietly, like a mouse that has been chased too many times by cats. He doesn’t even bother to look for his vulture, for he knows it is there. At breakfast, he stares at his porridge without an ounce of appetite, his mother eyeing him carefully. He knows her concern is not parental but a recognition that his behavior is abnormal. Abnormal is _wrong wrong wrong_. Tyler sees no way around the clear drink as she scrutinizes him, and throws it back in one gulp. He welcomes the way it scrambles his thoughts, dissolving the fear but also his commitment to the plan he had come up with.

Why would he want to escape? He is safe in Dema, he has a place in society that is normal and that does not bring him harm. He is proud to serve his bishop, committed to the Code of Conduct that preserves the city. He has never put his foot out of line, and there is no reason for him to leave if he faces no punishment. To abandon this sanctuary would be selfish; he would rather feel nothing at all than feel the terror that plagues his heart at the thought of beyond.

Under the table, Tyler’s hand grips his thigh so tightly his knuckles are white. It is the only indication that there is still turmoil, still resistance left somewhere. He fights to keep that ounce of resolve, though he can feel it fading away as hopelessness takes its place. His heart wills him to be free of Dema, but his mind begs for him to conform, to allow the city to envelop him in its routines and continuity. To be the same as every other provides no necessity for independence or competition; while it is a dull life, it is a safer one.

Thoughts muddled and suppressed, Tyler allows the fogginess to guide him. Today he marches to the factory behind a stranger, a woman with greying hair and a slight hunch to her back that tells him she is a weaver at the mill that is just beyond his own workplace. Perhaps she makes jumpsuits like the one he wears now, the patch on his breast sewn so perfectly it could have been done by a machine. The silk of the emblazonment provides his identification number and the insignia of Nico’s district. It is how the watchers keep the citizens in order, how they ensure each individual is exactly where they are supposed to be.

When the bells toll for lunch at the factory and he takes his rations, Tyler is ravenous. A dulled pang of anger arises as he takes his assigned seat, wishing he was permitted to take more at this meal considering he hadn’t really touched breakfast. As he looks down at his lap, his eye is drawn to a flash of brightness near his left foot. Another flower, its yellow petals a welcome comfort despite his knowledge that the shade is strictly forbidden in Dema. A sacrilegious color to the Vialist bishops, he wonders how it could have possibly gotten here; it couldn’t be an accident. But who would risk everything to deliver a _flower_? More importantly, how did they know of him?

His eyes do not leave the table as he bends down ever so slightly to pick up the decaying plant that has been nearly crushed by his work boots. Despite its wilted petals, it is still so beautiful. Tyler shoves the flower into his coat pocket with too much haste, trying to return to his upright posture before the watchers noticed. They stand at each corner of the room, silent ghosts that do not blink or move. He is convinced they are inhuman. While his attention is on being discreet, he is brought back by a sharp pain as the razorblade in his pocket slices into his palm. He barely pushes down a flinch as he feels the wetness of blood rising to the surface. _They cannot know,_ he thinks, _Do not let them see._

He dares not remove his hand from the safety of his pocket. The slight burn left behind by the razor keeps his attention, draws him away from the haze and brings him relief. Though Tyler had welcomed the numbness earlier, now that it is gone he realizes the seduction of oblivion is a poisonous lie. He would rather feel fear, pain, and sadness than feel nothing at all.

With the yellow flower in his pocket, Tyler finds newfound strength in its weight. The continued appearance of the blossoms are no coincidence, of that he is sure; that means there is someone out there, someone who he has to believe is there for him. That belief is the only thing that can outweigh the fear of this unknown universe he is preparing to step into. It is what grounds him despite the obstacles he faces on the journey; that perhaps he is not so alone after all.

The feeling of reassurance fades quickly as Tyler returns to his lodging. It is Monday, a day of mandatory worship in the districts. He knows the bells will soon ring, an indication that the repenting will begin. His parents, due to their age, attend worship at the Temple that lies in the center of the city. By law, it is the only place in which district lines do not apply. Though members of different districts are strictly forbidden from interaction, worship days are the only occasions that permit citizens of all nine bishops to walk amongst each other. Tyler had only ever heard about these days during his instruction of the Code as a child; he would not experience it himself until he reached his middle age.

Tyler and his siblings will remain in their lodging to do their worship. The practices are broadcast city-wide, projections dancing across the empty walls of the dormitories. Not a moment after he hears the door click, indicating his parents have left, he is on his feet. His heart is in his throat, desperate to leap out of his body in a desperate attempt to quell the anxiety racing through his blood. The sparse possessions he has are thrown into his work pack, its straps fraying at the edges after years of abuse. The flowers are lain carefully on top along with the clock, still reading 6:15, and the compass. _The compass lies_ , he recalls. He will need it to get out.

 _East is up east is up east is up_ his mind screams at him, reminding him of the words he spoke to himself in his sleep. Tyler knows better than to trust a nightmare, for sleep cannot be controlled, but this feels different. So he retracts the compass from his backpack in favor of his pocket; this time, the thin line on his hand reminds him to take care in putting it here. He hopes he will not need to use the razorblades, as he is not a violent person, but they remain in his jacket regardless. He could become a violent person if it meant freedom.

When Tyler leaves the house, the whole scenario feels so surreal he finds himself miraculously blending right in. He falls right in line with the others, knowing that he must cross the city center in order to reach his destination. Though he had originally planned to escape through the Western tunnels, the closest to his district, now that direction feels completely wrong. When he pulls out the compass discreetly, he notices a notch in the face that was too perfect to be accidental. Tyler turns the object so East takes the place of North and takes a deep breath; the notch lies at the bottom right.

Deep down, he knows it is rather foolish to trust a dream in this scenario even though the escape feels like a dream in and of itself. The penalty for his actions are unfathomable, even to Tyler (who tends to have a more creative mind than invited in Dema). But given he has not known emotions and feelings in so long, the strength of this one overwhelms his being. He _must_ follow this path, regardless of the outcome.

In the city center, the crowds are beginning to thin, making it difficult to keep cover. The journey is a blur, a rush of adrenaline that takes his memory of it away. If you asked him after the fact, he recalls very few details about it other than the stony faces of watchers on the streets, their steel eyes scanning the lines. He can remember the vultures flying overhead, dark shadows ever searching for a mistake, a feast. He wonders if his identification number will give away his age, revealing that he is too young to be in this place, but he keeps moving so as to give the watchers very little room to analyze. It seems to work, though perhaps not as well as he once thought.

The lying compass, rotated so that the struck-through E faces North, points him towards Sacaver’s district. He knows this bishop to be the cruelest of the nine, the most unyielding and unforgiving in Dema. Sacaver was the punisher, the bishop who sentenced wrongdoers to their fate; be that the Tower or otherwise, painful fates nonetheless. Tyler is struck with an odd sense of happiness that he lived in Nico’s district, though he is not sure if it is true happiness or circumstantial. Likely the latter.

It is when he reaches the point of turning into Sacaver’s district that he realizes there is no room for error anymore. He is wearing the badge of Nico’s district on his clothing and looks well under the worshipping age, not to mention he is about to head in the exact opposite direction as the others. The lack of conflict thus far leads him to believe that perhaps the watchers are less perceptive than they appear, that maybe all they are is a front to instill fearful obedience.

Treading softly down the road, Tyler sticks himself to the sides of buildings in an attempt to remain in the shadows. He feels like this will never end, that he will be inching himself along for all eternity with the promise of freedom further and further away. But this is not so—eventually, he reaches a point where there are no buildings left to hide him. All that is left is the perimeter.

Tyler is struck by the realization that he has no clue what the tunnel entrance looks like or where to find it. He knows it must be nearby, as he is exactly where the compass points him. In a world of grey monotony, things that are out of place stick out like the cut on his hand. It takes a moment that he doesn’t exactly have, but there is a flash of yellow that draws his attention yet again. Although this time it is not in the form of a flower but an insignia resembling a spider’s web. The symbol is neon yellow and plastered on a very plain door at the bottom of a stairwell, making Tyler wonder how the watchers and bishops have never noticed it before. He looks around before darting across the street, thankful that the sun has set enough to conceal him a bit more.

The door does not creak as he expects it to, as if it has been used frequently by someone else. He almost smiles at the idea that there actually could be others out there, people that might even be looking for him. The twitch of his lip quickly disappears as he reminds himself that he is not even close to safety yet. He might never be if his dreams had deceived him.

He pulls the door shut behind him carefully, twisting the handle so not even a click escapes as the latch closes. There is no lock, as he expected, but he still feels safe in the confines of the tunnel. From the small glance he got of it while the door was open, it looks as though it was once used for transit but has been long since forgotten. Now that the door has closed, there is a kind of darkness he has never experienced before. The fear returns, clawing at his chest like a lion, as he wonders yet again if he will make it out with both his mind and body intact. He decides he has nothing to lose.

Along with the darkness is the silence. Though Dema is a quiet city, in the tunnel everything is so still that Tyler thinks he hear is own heart racing, almost as if it was trying to get out too. Despite not being able to see his way through and having no indication of where he is headed, he continues to put one foot blindly in front of the other. Without the sound of marching footsteps, alarm bells, and vulture wings, his thoughts seem to go haywire in a way they never have been allowed to before.

He thinks about the car and the dream, this person that has his face and his voice and his _car_. Somehow, he just _knows_ that it was his car despite never having seen one in real life. The flames crackle and burst behind his eyelids, their reflection in his brown eyes an unforgettably haunting sight. He thinks about how this dream is somehow more clear and distinct to him than his memories of his own childhood, what that could mean. 

He thinks about the prospect of being alone for the rest of his life. Tyler is independent, yes, but he doesn’t know if he has it in him to survive without seeing another soul again. Despite the little contact allowed between the citizens, he still felt connected to the others in Nico’s district. They all shared the same fate, the same beliefs, and the feeling of fitting in was comforting. He wonders briefly if he was truly prepared to give that up forever, but he knows that he already has regardless of what might happen next.

The thoughts of his existence, of his purpose in life, cause him to slow his pace for a moment. When he is out, will he be running forever? If so, will anyone even remember him? Is there any point to this? They are fruitless thoughts, questions without answers, and that seems to bother him even more.

A crunch drags him back to the present and he bends down to pick up the offending object, feeling around blindly in the dirt. He convulses, nearly vomiting when his eyes see a human bone, picked clean either by the years of lying in the ground or by the sharp beaks of vultures. Goosebumps raise on his arms as he realizes he must be under the Necropolis, the burying place. The loneliness and eerie quiet of the tunnel is making his thoughts violent, he realizes; he feels _envious_. The bone in his hand once belonged to a person who escaped Dema, though in a very different way that was perhaps easier than Tyler’s. It must be peaceful, he thinks, to be free of the cage that is a body.

The bone finds its way into a pocket of his backpack, and though it seems macabre to carry it with him it, is a reminder that he would rather be anywhere than Dema. Walking through the Necropolis means that he must be close to the beyond, the end must be near. So he keeps going, praying that his intuition is right.

Without any warning, the tunnel comes to an abrupt end. To his delight, the makeshift stairs leading out are well-traveled, the dirt packed down into almost perfect angles. He ascends them, each step feeling lighter than the last. The object concealing the exit is heavy, nearly impossible to move, but adrenaline and willpower give him the strength to slide it out of the way. A _rock_ , a beautiful grey one that glistens in the sunlight, disguises the tunnel perfectly. His heightened awareness leads him to notice that there are smaller rocks surrounding it, forming a shape in the ground that looks identical to the neon sign on the doorway within Dema. Hiding in plain sight.

Tyler closes his eyes and inhales, feeling as though it is the first time he has ever breathed. The air is crisp and sharp in his lungs, but instead of pain he feels more awake than he ever has. When he opens them again, truly seeing for the first time, tears roll down his face at the beauty of his surroundings. Emerald green moss and trees are dotted along huge boulders, their tips white with frost. The stone is grey, but not like the concrete of Dema; it possesses angles and textures so unique that only nature could have made it. His cheeks are wet but he does not bother to wipe the tears away, fully aware that more would only take their place. They are tears of relief but also of fear, of joy, and of regret.

Vision blurred, Tyler knows he cannot stop for long and starts to run, unable to stop himself from turning around and around to take in the new world he is in. His mother would have loved this, he thinks, glancing back at the rock formation behind him with a twinge of sadness. One day, he will get her out. And one day, he will get all his siblings out, and the twins from the factory, and all the children of Dema, too. For now, he must stay alive.

Many miles have passed, exhaustion creeping its way in as the adrenaline wears off. He had no food, something that he failed to account for, and the stream beside him was the only source of drink. His legs drag, feeling like a dead weight that might fall off at any point in time. He is too focused on continuing the trek, to keeping his his gaze forward on the moon, that he fails to notice that the birds overhead are not just any birds but _vultures_ , many of them, twisting and circling with their claws open and grasping at the air. 

Suddenly he hears a loud caw, a familiar one that he hoped never to hear again. Before he can comprehend what is going on, it is over. There is a jolt of pain in his back, and he stays awake only long enough to feel his mind go numb and his thoughts slip away, body crumbling to the ground. Then there is darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot promise every chapter will come as quickly as this one has, but they will come. If you haven't gathered, this will be largely based on my interpretation of the Trench story, referring to the Clancy journals, lyrics, music videos, and lots of verified fan theories. Yes, there are parts I have carefully chosen to leave out for various reasons, and no, it is not necessarily the "right" analysis. It is merely inspired by the beauty of metaphor.


	3. come down, come down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you will pay for what you've done.

Vignettes of dancing flames and the hollow shell of a familiar car return to him, now completely without a roof. Tyler’s doppelgänger wears no red hat now, crouching on top of the car without any apparent attention to the smoke or fire surrounding him. He stares directly at himself, into his own eyes, but feels like the stranger does not recognize him even the slightest bit. It is an odd sensation that makes his skin crawl and he cannot look away.

We’ve been here the whole time,” he says, “You’ve been asleep. Time to wake up.” And before Tyler has even a moment to reply, to question him, the man stands up and points his head towards the sky, the wind igniting the flames even further.

His eyes open and he finds himself staring at a sea of blue, a sky that would have been crystal clear if there weren’t vultures circling above. His body feels disconnected from him, as do his thoughts, but what he does notice is that he is freezing and _wet_. A tired hand reaches up and touches his nose, coming away stained dark with nearly dried blood. He must have been out for some time. Willing his limbs to obey, he sits up and blood rushes to his head. The world blurs around him, his brain feeling as though it will pound itself right out of his skull. He recognizes that he is still laying in the ravine, he is still free, and forces his body up as quickly as he can.

Though Tyler has no idea what hit him or why he feels as though he is sloughing through mud, he can identify the urge that he must keep going, he must get away from whatever attacked him. He looks around, trying to figure out what direction he was heading. His backpack and compass are nowhere to be found, he vaguely realizes, blindly starting to walk as fast as his body would allow in the direction of the flowing water.

His peripherals are hazy but they detect movement, startling him. When he looks up, vision swimming, dozens of figures begin to appear along the steep faces of mountainous rock. Some carry torches, their flames dotting the sky. As they come into focus, so do brief snippets of the car-man, disorienting him and frightening him even more. Are these hooded and masked figures real or just another figment of his picked-apart mind? Are they friend or foe?

His first instinct is to call out to them, to find out who they are, but something tells him they won’t reply anyways. If they were going to help him or hurt him, they would already have done so. The individuals continue to appear in small clusters, reminding him of the watchers that are now a world away in their silence. As his thoughts come further and further into focus, he can feel that there is something tight constricting his right arm. A yellow band, the same yellow that adorned the door and of the flowers he no longer has. The same yellow as the masks worn by the people that look down on him now.

A skeleton car. Rising red flames. The vision returns, sucking him back into his own mind as he stumbles on the rocky ground. The stranger does not look at him in this one, head still raised towards the sky and eyes shut. His arms are outstretched, almost as if he is praying; repenting. Chills run down Tyler’s spine as he is reminded of worship, of the rituals he knew as well as his own name. _Grant me forgiveness. I am only a visitor in this world, I am not my own._

Sheer panic sends him into a sprint, or at least as close to a sprint he can get as he stumbles along the ravine. The scrutiny of those on the ridge is at the back of his mind despite their looming presence; now, his terror has taken over everything. He knows something is wrong, he can feel it in the air and in the ache in his head and in the way the vultures flap their wings above. So he runs, despite the overwhelming feeling that no matter how far he goes he will never get far enough.

Soon, he arrives at a part of the gorge that is wider, where the river splits many ways and forms small pools in the ground. His heart pounds, his panting so heavy and hot he can see it in the air. Before him is a white horse, ears pricked forward and nostrils flaring. A crimson cloak, billowing over its back, is a stark contrast to the beast’s light coat. It reminds Tyler of blood on ice. Nico, only his icy blue eyes and bicolored face visible under the hood, sits unmoving and unblinking. His breath catches as he realizes that Nico has been ahead of him this whole time, that he had allowed Tyler to get this far only so he could torture him further in his blind belief.

Slowly, the horse walks towards him. Tyler is paralyzed with the knowledge that he cannot escape now, watching as Nico creeps closer while his dreams run farther away. Suddenly, the bishop dismounts and leaves the animal to snort and swish its tail as he approaches. Tyler shuts his eyes, not knowing what will happen but unwilling to look Nico in the face; he might die today, and he thinks he actually might prefer it.

Frigid hands are on his neck and he has to suppress a flinch as he prepares for the worst. _This is better_ he thinks, _now you will be free forever_. He doesn’t feel quite so afraid now that it is actually happening; in fact, he feels a moment of peace for the first time in his recent memory. When the hands do not strangle him, merely running themselves under his jaw, the terror returns. Rather than sending him into the ground, Nico has marked him, the black streaks on his neck resembling those on the bishop’s. He feels his mind slip away again.

_This is not your fault. You have only been led astray from your true purpose, tempted by the lies of freedom and independence. It is time to repent, to pay for what you have done and return dutifully to your place. When your soul is at rest, you will understand. You are important to the city, to those around you. You have done something terribly selfish and you must ask for forgiveness. You must beg for it._

Tyler finds himself blindly following the bishop as he remounts his horse and begins to walk. Nico does not look at him, somehow knowing that despite his rebellion Tyler was coming quietly. He couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but watch his feet step in time with the hoofbeats ahead. Somehow he knew that the punishment for his crime would not be death; no, Nico had picked apart his mind, fully aware of Tyler’s deepest desires. He knew death would be the easy way, and so he would not give it. What Nico couldn’t see were Tyler’s dreams, the visions of the flaming car that should have been suppressed by the daily drugs they were given. 

He is not sure how long he has been walking, exhaustion and numbness having taken over long ago. That is until he sees that color, _yellow_ , radiant against the darkness of wet rock. They are flowers, the same ones that had been appearing around Dema, but these are still alive, still growing despite the unforgiving nature of the environment surrounding them. It triggers another vision that Nico cannot see, the car-man jerking and screaming as if he were trying to break free. When the image disappears, having broken Tyler out of his trance, he pauses and looks up. 

Petals rain down on him, a storm of vibrant yellow so beautiful that tears prick at his eyes. They come from the hands of the people on the cliffs, their masks and hoods giving nothing away. When Tyler looks down, prepared to take his next move despite the hopelessness he feels, the white horse is shaking its head and prancing in place. It is spooked by the flowers, and Tyler sees something like confusion across Nico’s face. He has never seen the bishop show any type of expression, and he certainly has never seen him unsettled or out of control before. _Run_ he hears the car-man scream, embers dotting his vision.

So he does, steps fueled by the fire in his mind and the knowledge that Nico is not impenetrable after all. He grasps the yellow flower in his pocket as if using it for strength. The trouble is that his body is unwilling to cooperate; he has been on his feet for many hours without food, his mind dissected and left raw for the vultures. They screech at the chaos, the sound so unnatural that Tyler looses his footing on the slick pebbles beneath his boots. His adrenaline is pumping so fast that he cannot save himself, the horse galloping at his heels. He feels his body hit the ground before he registers what is happening, and once again his world goes black.

Tyler is in and out of consciousness for awhile, eyelids fluttering every so often only to give into sleep once again. He’s being dragged, he knows that for sure as he can feel the rough, uneven rocks scraping along his back and the water soaking through his jumpsuit. In a brief moment of pause, he is able to open his eyes ever so slightly. Nico looks up at the ridge where one masked figure remains, the yellow bandana covering almost his entire face. He stares back at the bishop without any sense of fear, yellow tape crossed over his heart. When Tyler goes under again, he feels safer knowing there is someone Nico is afraid of in the world. The flower is folded across his chest, grasped tightly in his hands like a corpse being brought to burial. They'd have to break his hands to release it.

Nothing prepares him to wake up back in Dema despite the knowledge that he was headed there. The first thing that hits him is a wave of nausea and he pitches to the side, but there is nothing in his body so he just heaves and coughs, head pounding and spit dripping from the corner of his mouth. When he sits up, his body sore and stiff from the unforgiving floor, dizziness leaves stars in his vision. He puts the heels of his palms to his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing the feeling to go away so he can see how bad the situation is.

A familiar nightstand sits on the opposite side of the room, so unexpected Tyler has a hard time believing it’s real. He’s in his _room_ , exactly the same as he left it, and dread settles in as he realizes Nico knows how to get to him, knows to make this place into a real prison instead of a figurative one. Tyler wears a new jumpsuit now, jet black and without any identification save for the words, “Identified as Failed Perimeter Escape by Dema Council. Violation of Section 15398642 14” printed on his right sleeve. They must have undressed him while he was unconscious, meaning that one of the secrets he still possessed had been revealed. Something tells him that the intimacy and vulnerability of the scars will be used against him in some way.

Tyler is certain he will die of dehydration before anyone comes. So the punishment was death, he concludes, but it wasn’t immediate death. He would die forgotten in his dormitory room, the room he had grown up in but that was still barren. He pushes his way into the cot, pain searing through his bones. Exhaustion seeps in, taking away all his desire to fight. So he lays on his bed, staring at the ceiling until he has memorized every water stain and crack on the gray paint. Time might pass slowly, it might past quickly; he is unsure. Someone has put his clock back in its place (a cruel move, he thinks), but of course it still reads 6:15, a reminder that time is irrelevant in Dema. At one point, he thinks he might have yelled at it to _just move._

__

__

When he thinks that this is likely the end, he is reminded of the man on the car. The man that was unaffected by the fire surrounding him, screaming at the sky like an anguished wolf. A guardian, not enemy nor friend but a presence that was not under his own control. Tyler realizes he’s more alike to the doppelgänger than he once thought, that maybe the man is not a third party at all but a projection of something else he cannot pinpoint. Or maybe he’s just going crazy inside these four walls.

He has no way of knowing what's real anymore.

Imagine his surprise when the door is opened and his mother stands there, staring at him like she never has before. Her eyes are steel—unyielding and cold, transforming his skin to ice almost instantaneously. The silence is suffocating him but he cannot speak as he watches her set a tray of food and water down on the nightstand. She handles it like a robot, not even watching what she’s doing and staring straight ahead at the wall instead. And then she leaves, walking straight out without a noise or a whisper or a glance. Tyler breaks despite the numbness he feels, screaming and slamming his fists against the wall. He wants to cry but his body won’t let him, won’t release.

They’ve used his family. His family is being hurt, and it is _his fault_. And he knows that Nico will never end his cycle of repenting, that he will live in a perpetual state of shame for the rest of his life. He prays that it is a short one, though he begins to believe he deserves the lifetime of suffering. A small part of his heart, however, remembers the man on the car. His fearlessness, his unrestrained emotion and the raw power of it. That part knows that this is wrong, that no one deserves to live in a place like this, bound to obedience and conformity. 

The night is coming as Tyler looks out his window, watching the citizens return from work. He wonders if they know what happened to him; he doubts it, as that would mean there has been a disturbance and a weakness. As he thinks about the twins and his hope to get them out, a vulture lands on the roof, and he knows it’s his now because stuck in his feathers is a yellow petal. _You failed_ , it seems to taunt him. _You will always fail_.

Yet somewhere in the distance, another soft yellow light shines and flickers in the wind. The vulture takes flight, and the door swings open. Nico steps in with the punisher Sacaver, and the two drag him from the room without any resistance, their nails digging into his arms as ropes bind his hands. Tyler simply cranes his neck, watching the glowing light get a little bit bigger. He lets out a laugh, the sharp sound echoing wickedly in the hallways, and perhaps it is his imagination it but he thinks he feels Nico's hand slip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure whether I am including Josh's point of view, to be honest. I feel like there are avenues of doing so, or perhaps vignettes. Please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading.


End file.
